


Feathers On My Breath

by akisazame



Category: Persona 4
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-05
Updated: 2010-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:50:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1992159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akisazame/pseuds/akisazame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She watches, sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feathers On My Breath

_Nestled between the sex-deprived fantasies and the dark twisted nightmares, there are periods where he dreams only of her._

_She sits atop a tall ivory throne, clad in a flowing white gown, and looks down upon him with blood-red eyes._

_Sometimes the dream is little more than her image, pale and striking. Other times, he feels compelled to move towards her, to touch her wavy hair and porcelain face, but he is rooted to the spot, prostrated before her as a subject before his queen._

_He doesn’t remember when this dream began, can’t fathom what he must do to make it stop._

_It has been weeks since he’s dreamed of anything else._

 

She watches, sometimes.

Despair, hope, and emptiness. She loves each one equally, though each calls out to her in a different way, begging for a different response.

Taro yearns for acceptance, another to ease his painful loneliness. She watches through the glass as he stares at pictures of those he lost, crying pitifully. Cold fingers reach out, become incorporeal as she passes from one world to the other, and she is little more than vapor as her arms encircle him. Only a few minutes pass before he cries himself to sleep.

Souji is stretched in so many directions that it’s made him paper-thin, and she sees the weariness overtake his face as she watches him alone in his room. She never passes through to be with him; she tells herself it is because he wants most of all to be alone. Really it is because she fears he might sense her presence.

Tohru is the hardest one to watch. He feels familiar and unfamiliar at the same time; of the three, he is the least similar to her other half. He spends an almost uncomfortable amount of time watching television, which makes her activities difficult from a purely logistical point of view. She drifts towards the glass once he finally turns off the set; more often than not, he is still staring at the screen with vacant eyes.

She finds herself watching Tohru the most. Because Tohru is the one of whom she is most proud.

 

_His eyes are locked to her face, and he realizes he cannot so much as blink. All he can do is study the gentle curves of her features, the frame of soft silver curls, the thin pale line of her lips. She is looking past him, far into the distance, as if searching for someone else entirely._

_He is so overwhelmed that tears come unbidden to his eyes. He wants to throw a child-like tantrum, kicking and screaming on the hard marble floor, but none of his limbs will obey. He is nothing more than a statue._

_After what seems like an eternity, her head turns just slightly. Blood red eyes fall on him, catching his gaze like a fish in a net._

_She frowns._

_The sound of his own screaming awakens him. Under his face, the pillow is wet from his tears._

 

She draws close to the convex surface of the glass, close enough that her breath would have fogged it if she had been breathing. The apartment is dark, rain running in gentle trails down the outside of the window, and it takes her a moment to recognize Tohru as the fabric-draped lump on the futon. If not for the gentle rise and fall of the blanket, she might have overlooked him entirely.

The glass ripples slightly as she passes through, wind on the surface of the water. She moves quickly and quietly, though it is only out of habit; even if Tohru were to awaken, he would not be able to see her. There is no sound as she kneels next to the futon, reaching out with one incorporeal hand to ease fingers through sleep-tangled hair.

He stirs slightly and she draws back, reluctant to interrupt his slumber. But the corners of his mouth turn up slightly, and his eyelids flutter as one caught in the deep embrace of a dream. She reaches out again, brushing over his cheek, and he unconsciously leans into the touch.

Emboldened by the apparent depth of his sleep, she leans in to feather lips over his forehead. He seems warm to the touch, though it could be an illusion born of contrast. Her fingers curl around his ear like smoke.

He doesn’t move this time, but his lips part slightly and a sigh escapes.

 

_It is still dark in the apartment when he awakens, cold and shivering despite three layers of blankets. He closes his eyes quickly, trying to grasp at the fleeting memories of a pleasant dream._

_He remembers gentle fingers and soft lips. He remembers a level of contentment he has never felt before._

_Dancing on the edge of his mind, he remembers a woman in a white gown._

_When he opens his eyes again, the curtains rustle as though moved by a gentle breeze. The window is closed and the air is stagnant._


End file.
